


Invictus

by SerenePhenix



Series: Sensitive Re-Collection and Tales of a lonely Wanderer [12]
Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 20:40:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/666277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerenePhenix/pseuds/SerenePhenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He thought he knew his purpose now and that maybe it was time to begin facing the past even if it was the greatest challenge he'd ever had t face since his escape. But at least he wasn't all alone. At least he knew who he had been, what he was and who he wanted to be.</p><p>Third part of the Tales of a lonely Wanderer and companion-piece to Surrender.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Invictus

Invictus

_I thank whatever gods may be / For my unconquerable soul. / I am the master of my fate / I am the captain of my soul._

_~ William Ernest Henley_

* * *

It had taken him more than five decades to come to understand his place in this world. Five decades of wandering around in the embrace of the night and in the shadows of daylight, always careful, always apprehensive. An early encounter with one of the other spirits would inevitably lead to a confrontation.

Pitchiner was in a desolated park, sitting on a bench and waiting for a special guest to make his appearance. It was unusually quiet. He had come to understand that around this time of the year children tended to venture out onto the streets and stayed up late, disguised as some sort of monster, mystical creature or fear inspiring character from a story.

Halloween could be considered his season but it was just another false conclusion about him. It was the day humans celebrated to drive away evil spirits and fears. Their fears of the dark, of the unknown… of their childhood. Children were smiling and happy on that day, running around, occasionally scaring each other and giggling. So it was normal for him to be confused about the lack of activity on this October 31th.

He craned his neck left and right but still there was no one else but him. Although maybe that was not entirely correct. He looked up to see the full moon shining down upon him and the general area. As soon as he felt his eyes linger for too long he averted them in shame. He still couldn't bring himself to speak to the one he had robbed of a loving family.

It made him just more conscious about what a long way he still had to go. He sometimes asked himself if he would ever be able to face the consequences of his actions.

A knot was forming inside his chest, bulging and constricting all at once. In all honesty he felt sick to his stomach. Maybe he wasn't ready yet. But there was the question again: Would he ever truly be?

He shook his head. He did not want to think about it too much. It would only make him run away again, just like on the day when he had been near the pond.

He remembered how after avoiding that encounter with the Guardian of fun he had taken a good look at the world around him and at the children and humans he had loathed. Ironically it also had been their attention he had been seeking for the last centuries.

His memories had changed his view on the residents of earth. The memory of his daughter, who bore a lot of resemblance to the human children, had changed it.

He spent his nights and days watching, wanting to understand once again, to know once again what a family was supposed to be like. He hadn't touched the children even once. The image of his daughter would appear in front of him whenever the nightmares grew strong again. He felt like dying every time it occurred for he felt the weakness of his will also. To this day he still had no clue where she was or if he had made her his pawn.

His first time of intervention came when a little girl, who liked to climb trees, beginning to become more and more adventurous, clambered up trees that were getting higher and higher every day. The parent's fear of their daughter falling down one of them, maybe to her death even, had been palpable and gave Pitch back strength he found nauseating. This was not what he wanted to be anymore. He did not want fear to be his element, his core, his purpose anymore but he would never be able to get rid of it.

To his surprise the blue little butterfly that had kept him company all of these years, was not leading him away to another place. When he tried to go away during the night it flew off towards the girl's window, through the glass and into her room.

Pitch had been stunned for a moment, for the small companion never left his side for more than a few seconds. He had paused and watched the pale blue light glowing inside the room and illuminating the window.

Begrudgingly he followed him through the shadows, feeling that familiar tug before he landed on his feet again, in front of a small-sized bed with a starry bedspread.

The girl was slumbering peacefully, a content smile on her face as she nuzzled further into the warm blankets as though she was aware of the sudden intrusion. Pitch's face was blank as he watched her sleep, so reminiscent of his own girl, whom he longed to see with an intensity and heartache only a parent could even begin to understand.

The little butterfly hovered above her, drawing circles in the air over her head. Pitch threw it a look of pure anger for the first time since he had come across it in the cold, dark cavern. Why were they here? What was it hoping to achieve by forcing him through this?

His answer came in form of a golden tendril of sand that swirled down from the cloudy sky, through the same glass the little beetle had passed like it was made of air and curled into intricate shapes over the brown mop of hair. The butterfly had by then resumed his usual position beside a stunned Pitch who watched as the dream sand from the Sandman conjured the image of the little girl jumping from the highest point of an imagined world only belonging to her and flying above fluffy clouds.

Pitch's golden eyes lit up in understanding as he now came behind the mystery as to why the girl was climbing trees one higher than the one before. His head whipped sideways to look at the little airborne creature next to him, his eyes filled with dread and doubt.

Should he do it? Was it the right thing? What if nothing ever happened to her and she just led a happy life? He backed away slowly, breath coming in short and quick gasps. It was like there was no more air left in the confined space, making him dizzy and lightheaded. His wide eyes fell on the butterfly again that hadn't moved and remained floating on the spot.

Pitch stared, panic rising inside of him. He shook his head with such force that it turned his whole torso to one side.

"No! No! No!", he croaked as he grabbed at his head, growing desperate. He did not care if anyone heard him, though it was unlikely that he would rouse anyone in this house. He looked up again. He was so terrified.

The thought of using his powers after all these years was worse than remembering the time spent in that hell-hole that had been his second prison. He could not bear to become who he had been for so long, he did not wish to lose control over his powers, over himself again only to be cast into the death-reeking darkness.

He did not think he could keep his last shred of sanity if he were to go back there a third time.

But his friend did nothing to console him, flapping its wings just as fast as it always did. One could even say that it looked expectant.

Pitch felt frozen on the inside. He could either go and continue all alone or he did what the blue beetle seemingly wanted him to do and have his comforting presence beside him. The choice was made quickly but with a sickening feeling that was clogging up Pitch's throat as if he had bit off more than he could chew.

He felt detached as he strode next to the bed and reached out his hand, like he had done routinely so many years ago. He stretched his hand toward the golden sand which still pictured a smiling girl, rushing along with the winds. His grey finger stopped just as a grain missed it by inches and he drew back his hand again, shaking like he was exposed to the coldest of temperatures. He was fighting a battle on his inside no one might ever possibly understand. Not even the butterfly.

Of course he did not want to be the Nightmare King anymore but that did not change the fact that the darkness that had corrupted him for eons was entirely gone. Even now he could hear its gentle whisper, promising him power, glory… a family. It was hard to resist it. On the other side were his daughter and the guilt of maybe having turned her into a Nightmare.

Pitch startled out of his trance as he could feel the nearly non-existent weight of a blue butterfly on his shoulder, wings folded and sitting still. That was all it took for Pitch to overcome his own anxieties and doubts.

The golden grains started to be overcome by a darker hue: not entirely sun golden anymore but not dark as night, a dirty mix in-between. Pitch stared at it fascinated, for it showed once again what changes had happened with him and his powers.

The little dream-sand girl was whipping her head around and the real child squirmed under the covers but did not cry out or wail. Crouching down so as to be on the same level as the dream Pitch gave the nightmare a direction, controlling it and hampering it into growing into a full-fledged Night Mare.

The dirty brown figure was dropping a few times, growing more and more uncomfortable and frantic as she began losing control of her powers. A sand tree came into view and she latched onto it desperately, just like her real body did with its pillow, afraid that she would fall. Pitch twisted his thin hand gracefully and suddenly the tree was unimaginably high.

The figure on the branch hunched over and began to cry, its shoulders shaking uncontrollably. The girl in the bed whimpered as fear crept into her very being. Pitch's fingers were tingling with the faint sensation of power and satisfaction, a cold smile creeping onto his face, a bit of the grey seeping back into his golden irises.

He knew he would have succumbed to darkness again that day if the butterfly hadn't rushed through the image, destroying the dream and breaking the spell upon the little girl who shot up in bed immediately. Her eyes were wide and distraught as she looked at the stranger next to her.

Time had frozen that instant when they eyed each other, the child and the Boogeyman. Pitch was overcome by a surge of different emotions, ranging from self-loathing to sheer incredulity and… happiness. Although it came at a heavy price as the girl shrieked, jumped out of her bed and ran towards the door crying and screaming for her parents, terrified by his appearance.

It took him a moment to realize the magnitude of what had just happened. He stumbled backwards, feeling ill and downright alarmed as the whispers of the shadows he had been holding at bay became louder, trying to gently embrace him and bring him back into their midst.

It was again the butterfly who saved him, fluttering around his crumbled form and chasing the tendrils of darkness away. Pitch was too distressed to notice. The room felt too small, the once welcoming warm walls closing in on him threateningly. Making as much space between himself and the dark corners he went for the window, pushed it open, cold air blasting into his face and jumped. He landed on his feet somehow and immediately made a mad dash in direction of the forest.

The world around him grew eerie and menacing - every sound, every movement alerting him, making him whip his head around in utter terror. So this was what it felt like when one was subjected to his power.

He only stopped once he his legs couldn't carry him any farther. Gasping he looked around, trying to make out a potential attacker but he was alone in the dead woods. Alone with his thoughts. That was when his mind registered something was amiss. The lack of a blue light beside him made his insides twist and turn violently. The butterfly was gone. He had left it in that house with the shadows in his panic.

His hand flew to his chest as it became impossible to breath at a normal pace. Without the butterfly he was vulnerable, without it the shadows would have an easy game turning him over, without the butterfly he had lost his last link to the memories of his daughter…

He sagged to his knees slowly, soul shattered. What was he to do? It was impossible to run forever, from something that was ever present. His breath hitched. He did not want his mind torn apart again. He buried his face in his hands, feeling warm air coming from his mouth. Even that had changed after he remembered, going from coldness to warmth. The worst was his certitude that it would be back to its iciness sooner than he ever would have imagined in his worst nightmare.

He chuckled at that, the situation too dire and hopeless to even be truly afraid anymore. Blind to the world he sat there, immobile, awaiting the inevitable, frantic laughter escaping him.

He did not know how much time passed until he felt another presence come his way. He steeled himself, wanting to face his faith with at least some dignity. His tired eyes focused on a row of trees in front of him and his heart leapt to his throat.

Gently the blue glowing beetle floated up to his face, staying afloat. He reached out, dreading to find out it was nothing but a mere illusion, a trick of his lonely mind. Instead he felt the pleasant chill that was always there, emanating from that tiny body. He cupped his hands like he had done the very first time he had laid eyes upon it and it sat there, flapping its wings occasionally.

He gave a sigh of relief. Everything was going to be alright, now that his guiding light was back at his side.

* * *

Even now he could feel the reassuring presence inside his robe as it rested. He had come to understand why he needed it so much and he was glad that when the darkness grew too strong on him, it would stop it just in time. But it had gotten easier at ignoring the whispers and promises.

The little girl was not the last one he would pay a visit even if he never found out if it did change anything in the end. He liked to tell himself that she never went on a tree again thus never breaking any bones of hers.

It was always the butterfly that guided him, showed him which child to show the dangers in what they did, so that eventually they would stop with it altogether. Sometimes Pitchiner deliberately picked a child which he found needed it.

That way he had seen the world again, had come to know the children he had liked to frighten so much and had unexpectedly come to find that he no longer craved for their faces to be distorted by his powers.

After all the nights since he had freed himself of the dark hole he had found his place. He may not be Kozmotis Pitchiner anymore, the old hero of the Golden Age anymore but he wasn't Pitch Black anymore either. He was a being composed of two sides like anyone else, only that he had gone through both extremes. Now he was a blend and as such he had taken only one part of his old name and part of the title he had acquired after his fall.

He was Pitchiner. Not a war hero. Not a Nightmare King. Just a spirit, preventing children from doing things far too dangerous for them. A spirit that was to remain in the shadows forever.

A cold breeze swiped at the back of his neck coldly, making him shiver. The one he was waiting for was coming and indeed he saw a blue hoodie coming his way.

Pitchiner couldn't help but let the corner of his mouth twitch slightly upwards. Some things seemingly never changed. As the boy landed next to him, facing away, hood drawn up as though he was afraid someone might recognize him while meeting with his former enemy. Even with only the tip of his nose visible, Pitchiner could tell the boy, who had not changed the slightest in appearance was doing rather well by the way his posture was less slumped, his chin held a bit more higher than on their last encounter.

The whole situation was as amusing as it was ironic. There was a silence while the air around them grew colder with the presence of Jack Frost. Pitchiner didn't know what to say. He hadn't even imagined he'd be able to stay with all the worry and guilt making his feet more eager than ever to take him away from here.

But he had managed and that in itself was an achievement he was feeling somewhat proud of. He dismissed the light tugging at the inside of his cloak as the butterfly feeling his own excitement and agitation.

"I don't understand.", whispered the teenaged spirit, slowly sitting down next to him on the other side of the bench.

Pitchiner did not hold his animosity against him. He'd done everything possible to deserve that kind of treatment. Even with his mouth as dry as a desert from his inner tension he replied smoothly: "You don't need to, you already do."

"Maybe but, still: why me?"

It sounded whiny and for a second Pitchiner considered going away and not bothering him anymore. But his desire to let at least someone else (apart from a few frightened children) know he existed just drove him to continue.

"Is that question really necessary, Jack?"

For the first time ever since their conversation started Jack looked at him directly, a dark eyebrow raised judgingly. The boy got up from the bench, showing how restless and uncomfortable he was with the situation.

Pitchiner had grown nervous enough for the muscles on his face to freeze.

Jack strolled around making frost lace the ground and occasionally looking up towards the moon as though he was expecting something to happen. Pitch fiddled with his hands, trying to calm himself. He was not sure anymore what he had been expecting of this meeting anymore.

As the boy sat perched on his staff he made the decision to just answer his first question if it helped him any.

"You were the only one who would not ignore it."

He'd said it in all honesty. Jack Frost had known loneliness from the very first day of his creation. Someone who knew loneliness and was not as cruel as Pitch Black, would answer the call of another lonely soul. And Jack was not someone cruel. He had proven that when he had chosen the wellbeing of the children over his own in Antarctica.

The winter elf nodded in confirmation, blue eyes looking anywhere but at his face.

"No, I wouldn't even if I wanted to."

Pitchiner took it in and accepted it wordlessly. The boy was too good-hearted. The next sentence though made him feel as if Sandman was throwing him hard on the ground with his whip.

"After all, you also did not ignore me even if it only served your purpose."  
"Point taken."

He felt disgusted. He should just leave, he had already done enough to torment the boy. There was no hope to mend someone as broken as him. He should have known.

The smile on his face got misinterpreted as Jack grew rigid on his staff and looked him over, trying to assess how much of a threat he could still be, how much evil deeds he still could fulfill.

"Will you try and bother us again once you are powerful enough?"

His voice was low and threatening, the wind whooshing around them noisily as anger entered those ice-blue orbs. Pitchiner knew that it was better to go now. He was not out for a fight, especially not with the only other one who could understand his solitude. He got up slowly, carefully and turned towards the woods.

He waited a moment to think. He knew the spirit had meant attacking while saying bothering and surely it wasn't what he was planning to do. But even someone like him would never be able to take hundreds of lifetimes of isolation. A bit of that playfulness he had lost over the centuries assaulted him as he looked back at the white-haired boy. He could not promise not to send another message with the wind in another hundred years.

"Who knows."

And he left it at that, seeking refuge in the woods, unsuspecting that today the Man in Mood had been watching him closely passing judgment over him.

In a few more years to come, it would change his ever continuing life forever.

* * *

.

.

.

William Ernest Henley was an English poet and critic. He became well-known through his poem "Invictus" which was published in 1875.

The poem was inspired by a very difficult period of his life, being hospitalized for tuberculosis at a young age and having lost one of his legs because of it. He also might have lost his other leg were it not for a doctor named Joseph Lister.

While recovering from his surgery he was inspired to write this poem.


End file.
